


Baby, You Can Drive My Car

by itsrainingem



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Baby Driver AU, M/M, Songfic, Theft, blatant disregard to military protocol, god i dont know what happened here, kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 14:53:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12773400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsrainingem/pseuds/itsrainingem
Summary: Everyone has their thing. Perco takes watches. Nix scrounges for liquor. Welsh continues his never-ending quest for anything that will please Kitty Grogan. Even Eugene robs abandoned apothecaries with only a touch of guilt, making off with as many bandages and sulfa packets as he can carry. And then there’s Speirs, sweeping behind them like a shadow and carrying away anything they leave behind that sparkles or shines.Babe steals cars. He’s getting pretty good at it.(I saw baby driver and then this happened)





	Baby, You Can Drive My Car

**Author's Note:**

> yeah so i saw baby driver and all the parts where people asked him what his name was super incredulously and he kept having to say it and spell it out stuck with me, so. have this fic.
> 
> (I have no idea how to steal a car. Liberties were taken here. If you are going to steal a car, do not take inspiration from the way cars were stolen in this fic. Also, please do not steal cars. That is illegal.)
> 
> disclaimer: based on tv portrayals, not the real people

He’s strolling down the street alone in God-Only-Knows, Germany when a door along the sidewalk bursts open, sudden as a gunshot. Babe jumps, snapping out of his thoughts and reaching for his sidearm before he even knows what's happening with his heart in his throat. Light spills onto the street and illuminates the man leaping gracelessly down the steps, and Babe catches him in his arms and turns him toward the light to see—

“…Luz?”

“Oh man, Babe, oh thank god,” Luz giggles. Babe’s panic takes a moment to fade, and he forces his shoulders to relax. The world comes back into focus slowly: the golden light still flowing from the open door to what he can now see is some sort of bar, music drifting out with the clinking of glasses and the tinkling of laughter, the fresh smell of rain cut with cigarette smoke and the liquor on Luz’s breath. “We gotta get outta here right now, okay? Get us out of here if you wanna make it home in one piece. These girls are gonna kill us, alright? You listening?” He starts laughing again.

They’re at least three miles away from the town where they’re currently staying, and while Babe was enjoying being all moody in the rain with his thoughts and his cigarette he doubts Luz would feel the same—the guy looks like he can’t make it three feet on his own, much less three miles. He thinks for a minute, and some old muscle memory stirs awake in Babe’s fingers. It’s something he picked up in his youth out of sheer boredom, following the neighbor’s kids through Philly until they finally showed him how to do it himself. His hands were still too pudgy to hold the tools properly but he’d made do, committing each movement to memory knowing someday the knowledge might come in handy. Today seems to be that day. He scans the cars parked by the curb, old instincts kicking in as he looked up and down the street. Finally his eyes land on what he needs: shadows, rust, something no one would miss.

“Babe?”

“Yeah,” he says, and smiles as he loops his arm under George’s. “Yeah, let’s get back. Car on the end, come on.”

“That hunk of junk? I didn’t know you had a car in—” _hic_ “—Germany.” He laughs loudly.

“I don’t,” and Babe reaches down to grab a twisted hunk of metal from the road before using it to jimmy the door open carefully. Luz whistles lowly and squeezes through the space.

“Do you know what you’re doing? You could get into real trouble for this, you know. Theft is illegal.” Babe isn’t entirely sure if Luz is aware he’s slipping into an impression of Lipton’s Motherly Disapproval of Doom. Knowing him, there's a good chance it’s just instinct. He chooses not to ask for his own sanity.

“Oh, because this bit of trouble is so much worse than whatever you were getting yourself into back there?”

“Oh, shaddup. How was I supposed to know the broad was related to the fraulein from the barn? They don’t even look like sisters—holy shit, is that the engine?!” He listens to the choking rumble for a minute, concerned. “Is it okay?”

“Could use some attention, probably. From the sounds of it it hasn’t been driven since Hitler decided to get cocky in Poland. No one’s gonna miss this thing. I don’t think it got much love from its family, unfortunately.”

“No shit. We’re taking it? We’re like regular criminals now or something,” Luz muses. He slouches down further in his seat as Babe throws the truck into gear, pulling onto the street. “You’re all grown up, Babe. Gonna be the next Al Capone or something.”

“We ain’t criminals. And I ain’t Al Capone. We’ll return it before we march out, so keep those boots of yours off the dash.”

They fall into a comfortable silence as they drive through town toward the country where their current lodgings lay, Luz dozing in the passenger seat. They’re just a few minutes away from their warm beds when a familiar figure cuts through the beams of the headlights in the road ahead. Babe starts and slows the truck to a stop next to the man, squinting through the dirty windows. Ronald Speirs squints back before opening the door.

“Boys,” he slides into the seat, effectively squishing a very sleepy Luz into Babe’s side. Luz grunts as one of the many silver teapots Speirs is holding smacks him in the jaw. “Fun night?”

“You could call it that,” Babe replies blankly. He eyes the dozen or so teapots for another second before turning his eyes back to the road and stomping on the gas.

And that’s how Babe somehow becomes the company getaway driver.

 

“So you are returning them, at least?” Eugene asks warily.

He pours Babe another silver cup full of coffee from his matching silver coffee pot, pale fingers wrapped around the handle carefully. The set is a gift from Speirs’ last haul. Of all the habits that stuck with them from Bastogne (robbing apothecaries even when he was fully stocked, hoarding piles of food and blankets, not eating enough and barely sleeping and wrapping himself around Babe every night to make sure he didn’t freeze to death alone in his sleep from a cold that wasn’t there anymore), using helmets as cooking implements mercifully isn’t one of them. Eugene now proudly owns a coffee pot, kettle, and even makes use of the stove in the house they’re currently boarded up in. The novelty of having such luxuries still hasn’t worn off, and he handles each one with careful hands and borderline awe. It’s ridiculous and adorable and makes Babe want to give him nice things.

“Returning what?”

“The cars.”

“Oh. Yeah, of course,” Babe answers, and he sips his coffee to hide his flush. “I return every single one I borrow. I make sure they don’t get beat up, either. I’m not trying to go to jail.”

“Good. War’s almost over, from what I hear. You don’t wanna be doing anything stupid now.”

“Stupid? Do you know me?”

“Too well, and that’s why I’m saying it,” Gene replies pointedly, but he ruins it with the way his lips quirk up and Babe has to grin back and tangle their ankles under the table in response.

 

The next morning is heralded with an ungodly squawk from the door of Babe’s current car, some old rusted blue thing he doesn’t care enough to identify beyond that no one has come looking for it, it drives well, the seats are nice and roomy, and it’s blue. He likes blue.

The squawk from the door is followed by a heavy sigh from Babe as several candlesticks and a silver tray tumble off the driver’s seat and into the dirt in front of him. The seat itself is piled high with silverware, a gold mantle clock and a handsome silver soup bowl complete with a ladle. Babe sighs again and turns away from the mess for a few seconds, just to see if it will disappear by the time he turns back around. It doesn’t.

He picks the fallen items out of the dirt, waving to an orderly as the man steps out of a building across the street. “Hey, you going to see Speirs?”

The orderly blinks blankly behind his glasses. “I’m going to work. With Major Winters. Who I work for. Why would I be going to see Speirs?”

Babe waves a hand vaguely, already gathering up the antique German silver littering his car and stacking it in the man’s arms. “They’re buddies. All the officers are buddies. Everyone knows that. If you’re going to see one of them, you’re bound to see them all. Leave this up there for Speirs and tell him Babe sent it.”

“…Babe?”

Babe pauses finally, taking in the confusion on the man’s face. His shoulders hunch around his ears as he juggles the various items, blinking at Babe with that same blank look. “Yeah, Babe. It’s my name. B-A-B-E.” He reaches over to steady a candlestick sticking out of the soup bowl. “Okay?”

The orderly just shakes his head, muttering as he trudges toward Headquarters. Babe watches him go for a moment before finally swinging himself into the driver’s seat. He reaches for the handle, about to slam the door shut when a hand collides with the top of the doorframe. The bang resonates through the entire car. Babe nearly jumps out of his seat and he lets out an undignified sound not unlike the squawk of the door minutes prior. His hand jerks toward the rifle propped up in the passenger seat before he catches himself.

Nix grins at him, eyes shadowed by aviators and face darkened with stubble. “Where you off to, Heffron?”

“Just going for a ride, I guess.” Babe takes a deep breath to calm his nerves. “Do you need something, sir?”

Nix smiles, but it’s impossible to read him behind the sunglasses. “Need something? I need all sorts of things. Mind if I tag along?”

Nix is already rounding the car to the passenger side as he says it, so Babe wearily said, “Not one bit, sir,” moving the rifle from next to him and shoving it into the back. He sets to work on the ignition switch with a few bits of metal he’d fashioned into tools. Within seconds the engine is purring to life, and they’re off.

 

It’s all about the peacefulness of driving for Babe, getting out of his head and following roads. The cars themselves don’t matter so much as long as they drive well. This particular one is blessed with a working radio, and between the crooning from the speakers and the comfortable rumble of the engine Babe almost forgets Nix is there. He snaps Babe’s attention back to the task at hand as he waves at an abandoned storefront.

“Here. Wait for me outside,” and he hauls himself out of the car and leaves the door hanging open.

Babe spends a few idle minutes scanning the radio, flipping between channels and humming tunelessly along to something catchy in German. He raps his hands against the steering wheel, whacking the glove compartment with his knee by accident. It falls open and a pair of sunglasses tumble into his lap. Without missing a beat Babe puts them on, checking his reflection in the mirror and bobbing his head to the music. He jumps when Nixon appears in his periphery. He treks across the dirt road toward the car, thrusting a large box of liquor at Babe.

“Here—take it, go. Put it in the back. I gotta get the other one.”

“…Other?” Babe says, dumbfounded, struggling with the weight of the box. There are at least twelve bottle necks sticking out of it. He feels a sudden rush of sympathy for the orderly whose arms he’d shoved Speirs’ silver into that morning.

Nix disappears into the shop once more and appears with a second box, this one stacked high with books and a few extra things Babe can’t identify. Babe takes it from his arms and places it in the back. “Careful,” Nix says.

“Doing some light reading there, sir?” Babe jokes. There are easily twenty or thirty books in the box.

“They’re romance novels.”

Babe blinks. “That’s…what?”

“Listen carefully, Heffron, because this is top-level military intelligence. There are only two people on earth that know this, and you’re about to become the third.” Babe nods solemnly, so Nix continues. “Our fearless leader has one weakness. Only one. It isn’t smokes, it isn’t booze.”

“It’s raunchy pulp fiction?”

Nixon tilts his head and hums. “Not raunchy. Sappy. Dick likes the cute stuff. The guy reads the news, he reads military reports, he reads poetry and history and classics. But he also reads—” he grabs a paperback from the box at random, “— _Star-Crossed on the Western Front: Not Even War Can Stop True Love._ ” He flips the book over in his hands, scanning the back. “Huh,” he mutters. “Huh. This actually…” He flips it open to the first page. “This actually looks pretty good.”

Babe stares at him for a long moment, then clears his throat loudly. Nixon starts, then flings the book back into its box. He pulls something else out instead, brandishing it at Babe carelessly without looking at him. “Here. Some collateral for your troubles.”

Babe takes it warily as Nixon digs through the case for a bottle. It’s a gray suitcase no bigger than a lunchbox, sturdy and heavy for its size. A crank juts out of one side and he flicks the top open to reveal a single 45 resting on a turntable. “It’s a record player,” he says dumbly.

Nix stares at him. Or Babe assumes he’s staring. It’s really hard to tell behind the aviators, and even harder now that Babe is wearing a pair, too. “Yeah,” Nix says slowly. “It’s a record player. Hard to find music out here that isn’t either in German or an army song. Just don’t play it during quiet hours and we’ll be good.”

Babe runs his hand over the case gently. He’s been missing real music, fingers twitchy without the background noise. Sometimes all he wants is to hear a good swing beat again, and nothing satisfies that craving less than Nazi-approved radio choices. “Thanks, Nix,” he says, oddly touched.

“Yeah, yeah.” The bottle opens with a resounding pop, and Nix drinks from it resolutely. “Take us home.”

 

He finally gets the chance to crank the thing up later that night, and Billie Holiday begins to croon about summer and easy living. Eugene pauses mid-coffee pour. “I like this song.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Haven’t heard it in a long time.”

“Not one for that nice Nazi-approved opera that’s been on the radio?” Babe says, and he grins across the table at him. He’s not quite ready for the grin he gets in return, and he sloshes a little coffee on the table as he stirs in the sugar a little too enthusiastically.

Eugene notices it somehow despite never looking away from Babe’s eyes. He hands him a napkin with a soft smile, ever-meticulous about his space. “It really isn’t my style. I don’t think it’s anybody’s style.”

“Hey, I heard a really good one today!” Eugene snorts and Babe laughs. “No, seriously! It was really good! I was about to get out of the car and start dancing. No idea what it was, but it was great!”

“I’ll believe that when I see it, Heffron. Nix probably gave this to you just so you would turn the radio off.”

“You have no proof.” Babe takes a sip of his coffee. It’s the good kind Skinny scrounged up from somewhere, with cream Perco brought Eugene from some farm nearby. Babe figures he should feel something about the endless streams of gifts that always flow the medic’s way, jealousy or confusion or something, but he really can’t blame anyone for it. Everyone loves Eugene almost as much as Babe does. He’s always there when they need him, whether it’s with kind words and comfort or bandages and fast hands. In a crisis he’s quick and calm, his voice steady and soothing. During downtime he watches the wounded like a bear watches her cubs, checking over cuts and bullet holes almost obsessively. Babe’s heard men say if they die in this war they’ll be happy so long as Eugene Roe’s face is the last thing they see, and he can’t help but agree with them. The man gives everything he has to the company, and then some. It’s no wonder he gets so many tokens of affection in return.

“What’re ya doing over there, all quiet like that?” Eugene murmurs, nudging him out of his thoughts.

“Just thinking.”

“Well, you gotta stop doing that,” and Eugene kicks at his ankles like always. “It’s my medical opinion that you could strain something doing that.”

He kicks him right back and grins in response.

 

Babe wakes in the middle of the night to something digging into his side. He swats it away lazily.

“Babe, get up.”

He grunts and reaches across the mattress to find it cold. Gene’s gone then, probably out for a smoke or in the basement combing through his supplies. It’s become a favorite pastime ever since Bastogne. He opens his eyes finally to see Skinny hovering over him. Liebgott lurks in the doorway like a particularly irritable specter.

“What do you guys need at—” he gropes for his watch on the nightstand “—two-fucking-thirty in the morning, Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you?”

“We just need a car.”

Babe squints at him. “You serious?”

“Just start one for us, okay? Then you can go to sleep.”

He sighs heavily, resigning himself to being awake. “I already returned the last one. I’ll need to find you guys a new one. And I need to come with you anyway. The engines die at random sometimes and I don’t think Winters would be too pleased if you guys got stranded.” He’s already rolling out of bed, pulling on some pants laying on the floor and reaching for his boots. “What’s so important that you need a car at this time of night, anyway?”

Joe crosses his arms in the doorway and his frown darkens to a glower. Skinny meets it with his usual deliberate patience. “Liebgott here hurt Webster’s feelings.” Joe’s glare shifts to be directed at the wall, and Babe worries the plaster will start to smoulder from the sheer heat of it. “Now he’s thinking maybe he should go scrounge up a proper apology gift so they can skip through fields of flowers for another few days before they try to kill each other again.”

“That’s not what this is,” Joe cuts in. “I just—he’s an idiot, okay? But he’s really depressed now and it’s bad for morale for someone to be depressed—”

“Okay, it’s not an apology gift, got it,” Babe says, and the others follow him as he leaves the room and walks through the building to the street. He does a cursory glance up and down the curb before turning toward the intersection. “Where are we going?”

“The museum in the next town over,” Joe says. “It should be quiet, and we won’t raise an alarm. In and out.”

“A museum?”

“Yeah. That a problem?”

“I guess not.” Babe’s eyes finally find a car that check all his boxes, a beautiful old Cadillac that’s seen better days. The windows are dirty and the chrome is dull, but the smooth leather interior suggests while this car had been left behind, someone once loved it very much. Plus it’s blue. “We’ve just never robbed a museum, you know? It feels so criminal. Usually we’re just stealing silverware from rich Nazi assholes.” He jimmies open the door as he speaks and then reaches across to open the passenger side and rear.

“Yeah, well, it’s to cheer up Webster. It’s gotta be nice. He likes nice things. Besides, I hate to point it out but you’re actually a criminal now, Babe. You steal about four cars a week.” Joe takes the back seat, settling into the soft leather, and Babe studies him in the mirror for a moment before pulling out his tools and turning his attention to the ignition.

“Gentle on those seats, okay? We need to leave these things nicer than we found ‘em.”

“Why? You know it probably belonged to some Nazi fuck anyway.”

“Yeah, well, it’s a beautiful car. Last time I checked there weren’t no Cadillacs committing any war crimes.” The engine rolls over and starts with a smooth purr. Babe flicks on the radio before pulling into the street, gesturing at it to Skinny. “Find something good, will you?”

Half an hour later the car rolls to a stop in front of the museum. Joe and Skinny both get out and for the first time Babe notices their all-black clothing, no American flag or Airborne patches in sight. It seems right. As soon as their doors slam shut a familiar drum line blasts through the radio, the quick American beat blasting through German radio making Babe’s jaw drop.

This seems even more right.

A few minutes later Joe and Skinny run down the steps of the museum as clarinets wail and trumpets scream from the speakers, guards running after the two men and shouting in German. Babe’s pulse leaps. They dive into the car and Babe floors the pedal without thinking, whipping through the town and skidding around corners as fast as he can. The world falls away and the gear shift slides familiarly in his hand, his feet pumping pedals and the engine roaring in a way it probably hasn’t in years. The song ends just as they clear the city limits.

“What the fuck,” Joe pants. “What the fuck, what the fuck. Where did you learn how to drive? That was the most terrifying experience of my life and I was a _fucking cabbie in San Francisco._ ”

Babe glares at him in the mirror. “I would have warned you, but I wasn’t expecting a chase by guards! You didn’t warn me about the goddamn guards, Joe! Friends warn friends about guards! What the fuck did you even take?”

“Here, take a look.” Joe holds something out to him and he reaches behind himself to take it, examining it briefly before handing it back.

“What is it, a fish?”

“It’s not a—” Joe rubs a hand over his face. “It’s a shark. It’s a little ancient shark totem, for good luck at sea or some shit.”

“…You got him a statue of a shark?”

“He likes sharks! He’s weird! I don’t know!” They drive on for a few minutes, the silence only broken by the sounds of the engine and the unfamiliar words of yet another German jazz ballad on the radio. “He’ll like it, right?”

Babe sighs. “It’s from you, isn’t it? Of course he’ll like it. After he gets over the fact that you stole a probably priceless relic for him from a museum.”

 

They return the car and trudge back into the house just before sunrise. In the morning Webster is glowing like Hitler died during the night, and Liebgott is finally in good spirits again despite the dark circles under his eyes. It makes Babe want to throw confetti and hit his head against a wall in equal measure. And then a few days later Nix announces Hitler actually _has_ bit the bullet, and it becomes a very good week indeed.

 

Leaving Germany means Eugene is forced to abandon his coffee pot, and he leaves it in the basement in Germany mournfully. They’re in Austria for less than a day before Speirs helpfully leaves him a new one in the aid station, this one inlaid with gold and studded with mother of pearl. The whole thing is a bit over the top, if Babe does say so himself. Eugene doesn’t even bother hiding his glee.

The day goes by at a steady pace, Babe helping unload trucks and stack crates. There isn’t any time for exploring or fraternizing until everything is set up, quarters designated to everyone and the offices and aid station built from what they can find. Despite the hard work, everyone is in good spirits. The sense of urgency that chased them from Holland to Germany seems to have fallen away in Austria. It’s finally warm again and after three years of fighting the war seems like it might actually be ending. If the alternative to being shot at by Nazis is breaking his back  carrying boxes of ammo, Babe will do it happily.

He stumbles up to his quarters late that night, sore and exhausted. They’re all lodging in tall buildings that ring the town square. While it’s the first time in years Babe’s had a room to himself, it feels strange to be separated from everyone else. He’s almost grateful for the natural din that comes with this particular group of people. In the square he can hear Malarkey’s laughter bouncing off the buildings’ walls, men leaning out the windows to shout down to him. Sweet smoke drifts out from the gap underneath Liebgott’s door, and Babe smells instantly that it isn’t from a cigarette. There is a woman moaning loudly in Janovec’s room. In the room next door Perco has his ear pressed to the wall while Luz mimics her loudly. And in the room next to _that_ Bull Randleman sits by the window, all the lights off, a cigar between his lips. Johnny Martin is sprawled on the bed, cleaning a gun. Bull shakes his head as Babe walks by.

He finally reaches his own door, but his foot skids out from under him as he trips over something smooth. He barely catches himself against the doorframe and sends a prayer of thanks up to the powers that be before reaching down to pick up the object he stepped on.

It’s a very familiar book.

He flips the paper cover carefully, treating the damned thing like it’s a live bomb. _Richard Winters_ is written neatly in blue ink in the corner of the cover page; _Lewis Nixon_ sits below it in lazy black cursive.

“Hey,” a voice chirps. Babe looks up. Webster is coming down the hall, smiling brightly. “Wow, is that _Star-Crossed on the Western Front_ by Francis M. Schneebly? I love that book!”

Babe blinks. “Um.” He looks down. It is definitely _Star-Crossed on the Western Front_ by Francis M. Schneebly. The cover art depicts two men clutching each other in the middle of a barren field. Their tight-fitted uniform trousers are definitely not regulation. Neither are their half-buttoned shirts. “I guess. Do you know it?”

“Know it? It’s a modern classic. It’s _the_ modern classic. We studied it in school.”

“You read a gay romance novel at Harvard?”

“Yeah! There’s this class called ‘Dissecting the Pulp.’ We studied how the peoples’ literature is what inevitably stands the test of time. Shakespeare was all just penis jokes, you know,” he explains seriously. “Mark my words, Babe. One day _Star-Crossed on the Western Front_ is going be the new _Iliad_.”

Babe looks down at the two men on the cover doubtfully. “Do you wanna take it with you?”

“Really?” Web’s big blue eyes somehow get even bigger.

“Yeah, sure. Take it with you. It’s yours.”

“Gee, thanks! Thanks very much!”

 

Babe and Perco munch on thick slices of bread with cheese on the steps of the hotel in Zee Am See as they wait for…well, really anything to do. Austria has proven to be pretty fucking dull, and the main pastimes of the company have mainly become gossiping and reminding themselves what real food is.

“So, you’ve been running your own crime ring around Germany, huh?” Perco says through a mouthful of cheese. Babe looks at him out the corner of his eye. “By running I mean driving, anyway.”

“Who’ve you been talking to?”

“Please. Everyone’s heard of it. They’re saying even the officers are involved.”

“What do you need?” Babe asks, resigned.

“What makes you think I need anything?”

“Everyone needs something. You wouldn’t have brought it up if you didn’t need something.”

Perco tosses the last bite of bread into his mouth. “Oh, nah, that’s not what this is. I got everything I need right here.” He pulls back his sleeve to reveal eight watches ticking away. “Unless you wanna help me make off with that clock tower in the city center? Now _that’s_ a heist.”

Babe laughs, trying to picture Perco carrying a clock face as wide as he is tall. “So you’re really just curious then?”

“Yeah, really. I don’t need nothing but a ticket home. Just trying to get the gossip from the man himself.”

“There isn’t anything I can add to what you already know. I may be no mobster, but I ain’t no rookie either. I’m not confirming or denying a thing.”

“Eh, you’re no fun. I heard Nix was looking for you at the Eagle’s Nest earlier. He says he has some cargo.”

Babe stands suddenly. “Shit, this morning?”

“No, it was only a half hour or so ago.”

“Fuck, we gotta go. I mean, if you wanna come.”

Perco heaves himself off the ground and starts down the long steps. “Of course I do! I'm practically the only one in the company who hasn't seen you in action. I'm getting jealous.”

They reach the main road and Babe heads toward the nearest car. It's perfect for what they need, roomy but not too chunky for the mountain roads. The ethereal light turquoise paint and azure leather seats don't hurt, either. He sets to work on the door quickly. “It won’t be a fun ride,” he warns as he works. “We need to get up there quick.”

“That don't mean it won't be fun.”

Across the street Floyd Talbert glances up from his poker game. His eyes catch on Babe not-so-subtly breaking into the car and he puts his cards facedown on the table mid-hand. “What won't be fun?” he calls, jogging over. Liebgott stands too, following him more slowly.

“We gotta go to the Eagle’s Nest. Nix has some stuff he wants me to pick up.” The door to the car swings open smoothly.

“Eagle’s Nest, huh?”

“That’s right.”

“And he said you could bring passengers?” Both Floyd and Joe look at him hopefully.

Babe pauses, halfway into the car. “I'll need help carrying things but we don't exactly need a crowd. I’d say maybe one more person, tops.” This is met instantly with whining from both men. “Hey, come on, guys. I gotta fill this thing up with cargo. One of you can come, or neither. It’s not even gonna be exciting.”

The two stare each other down. Joe looks away first, grumbling, “Fine, you go. I already went driving with him once, anyway.”

“You sure?” Floyd asks, ever generous. The effect is lost somewhat since he’s already climbing into the car and shutting the door behind himself.

“I’m sure,” Joe’s saying. He holds up a familiar book, slightly more battered than the last time Babe saw it. “I’ve been meaning to finish this, anyway. Webster recommended it. He recommended an actual good book, can you believe that? Who’d have seen that coming?”

“Yeah, you enjoy your reading, Joe!” Perco teases. “We’ll just be off living a life of crime!”

Babe starts the engine deftly and flicks on the radio. The infectious rhythm of Duke Ellington’s orchestra makes him smile. He turns it up until the beat is pounding out of the speakers, then floors it toward the base of the mountain.

 

 

The Eagle’s Nest is...barren. Surprisingly so, but it probably has to do with Speirs beating them there. The three of them are standing in some sort of living room while they wait for Nix to finish picking out the bottles he wants to take. This means he's now been debating between bottles for about an hour. Babe can't really say he's surprised.

Babe wanders the room, Perco and Tab doing the same. There are still a few odds and ends laying around: a letter opener shaped like a dagger, a few nice crystal tumblers, some handsome pens on a stand by a desk. He pauses at the stereo, flipping through the 45’s before pulling a few from their shelves.

“Help yourself to those, Babe, no one else has any use for them,” Nixon says as he enters the room. Behind him are three men holding crates. Nix drops his own crate into Perco’s arms. “How was the drive up?”

“Terrifying,” Floyd supplies helpfully.

“Steep, sir,” says Babe. If Tab is scared of taking mountain roads at 80 miles an hour, that's his problem.

“Well, I'm glad you made it in one piece. This is precious cargo, so be careful on the way down, alright?”

“Alright then.” He taps three 45’s against his palm. “I'm keeping these.”

“You do that.”

“And I’m taking this!” Tab pipes up, brandishing a sack. It jingles, heavy with Nazi coins. Nix frowns. “I mean, unless someone else wants it.”

“There any gold in it?”

“No, just pocket change. Shifty likes throwing coins up in the air and shooting holes through the dumb Nazi eagles. It calms him, I think.”

“Okay, it’s yours. Perconte? You want anything?”

Perco smiles, shifting the weight of the crate against his chest. “No, sir. I’m just here to help.”

“Well, you guys start loading these into the car then. You should be able to leave them at headquarters. None of us will be back for another few hours.” They all walk back to the car, Babe picking the lock on the trunk. The men load the crates into the back, Perco putting his in last and slamming the door. “Oh, and will one of you let them know they need to send a few trucks up here? We have some supplies to bring down.”

“Supplies?”

Nix grins. “Supplies. You didn’t think that was all the booze Hitler has stashed away up here, did you? We’re gonna have ourselves a party.”

 

Nixon wasn’t lying

Nighttime finds the entire company trashed, singing and laughing as they stumble through town. Shifty and Tab are attracting quite the crowd in the plaza, Tab flinging 10 pfennig coins into the air. Shifty sways on his feet yet still somehow manages to hit each one with a well-aimed bullet, much to the crowd’s glee. On the other side of the square Luz and Perconte are making a game of trying to catch the coins, the swastika on each one bent and punctured beyond recognition.

Babe doesn’t have time for games. He is on a very important mission to find a wayward medic. It is vital that he complete this mission in a timely and efficient manner. If the medic is not drunk yet he will receive the bottle Babe is carrying, and if he is drunk already then the bottle will be shared between them.

He stumbles to the makeshift hospital, leaning against the wall next to a woman he thinks he recognizes as one of the nurses and grinning widely. “Hello, have you seen Gene?”

“Gene?”

She has a weird accent. Canadian, maybe. He heard the Canadian Red Cross was sending women to Europe. “Yep. Doc Roe. Is he in there?”

“I think so. Are you hurt?”

“No, just looking for him. I want to give him this.” He holds up the bottle proudly and the amber liquid sloshes against the side.

She smiles prettily. “You’re a good friend. I think he’s busy, but you can give it to me instead if you’d like. What’s your name?”

“It’s Babe.”

Her brows furrow a bit, smile turning confused. “Babe?”

“Yeah, Babe. B-A-B-E. That’s me.”

“Does that ever get confusing?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, have you ever accidentally answered to someone when they’re just calling out to their boyfriend? It seems like it could get confusing.”

He smiles again because, sure, it happens sometimes. “Well, every now and then. But mostly it’s the other way around.”

“How do you mean?”

“Everybody always thinks I’m dating everyone. I’ll be talking to someone and then one of my buddies will come up and—”

He’s cut off by the hospital door bursting open and Eugene leaning out. “Baaaabe!” He drawls. His cheeks are glowing, eyes glassy and smile uncharacteristically goofy. “Babe, Babe, mon coeur. What are you doing out here?”

“I was looking for you!” Babe laughs, because suddenly this is hilarious. “I was talking to your friend and she told me you’re busy tonight, but tonight’s party night and I brought you a present!” He brandishes the bottle and it sloshes again.

Eugene lopes down the steps, bumping into him. Babe catches him with an arm around his shoulders. “I’m busy, huh?” He takes the bottle and uncorks it. It pops jovially and the sound makes Babe laugh again. “I got nowhere to be but here.” He slurs something in French to the woman and she frowns at him, responding in kind. He says something else and she walks off in a huff. A sober part of Babe’s brain catches on the exchange, then it slides away just as quickly when he remembers something else.

“Oh! I got a gift for you!”

“Gift? You just gave me a gift, Babe.” He holds up the bottle.

“No! I got another gift for you. Several gifts, in fact!” He’s already dragging Eugene toward his building.

“What’d I do that’s so worthy of gift giving, huh?”

“You existed, for starters.”

“That doesn’t seem so hard.”

“Well, that and when I saw them I thought of you.”

They push through their door, arm in arm. “You’ve been thinking ‘bout me?” Gene drawls, grinning widely.

Babe crosses the room to the dresser, digging through the drawers. “ Of course I was, I’m always—god, where’d I put them? There we go. We were at the Eagle’s Nest today and I found—” he whips his little stack of 45’s out from where they’re hidden, “—these!”

Gene is sitting on the bed, toeing his boots off so he can put his feet up. “What’ve you got there? Is that French?”

“Top hits straight from the city of light,” Babe replies proudly. He plops the first one onto the turntable and gives the box a few cranks. “Stolen straight from Adolf’s private collection.”

Gene’s lighting a cigarette one-handed, fingers nimble despite the quantity of alcohol going through his blood. Babe drops the needle and comes to sit next to him, watching Gene take a long drag before handing it off. Babe takes it between two fingers as Edith Piaf’s voice weaves through the room in language he can’t understand. He steals the cigarette and wraps his lips around the end where Gene’s had been seconds before. He wonders if that counts as a kiss.

“You ever get the urge to get in one of those cars of yours and drive away from all this?” Gene asks softly, watching him.

“Drive away? From what?”

“The war. All of it. You have the power to just leave it all behind. Snatch up a car and drive away. How do you not do it?”

Babe thinks about it. “We all can leave, really. Don’t need a car or anything to go AWOL. Why don’t you do it?”

“I’m needed here,” Gene says immediately. “I could never leave. There are people here who need me.”

Babe waves his hand at him and watches understanding dawn in Gene’s eyes. “It’s a dream for everyone. No one can actually do it, though, have you noticed that? No matter how many times people talk about it, the only time they go AWOL is to come find the rest of us so they can jump right back in.”

Gene nods to himself. He drinks from the bottle before passing it over to Babe, and he drinks, too. Another second-hand kiss. The room spins.

“What is she saying?”

Gene smiles at him in the dim light from the window. “You want a direct translation?”

“Yeah, sure.” The smoke curling between their faces makes Gene look silvery and ethereal, and their sides are warm where they press together. It’s nice. It’s only when they’re this close that Babe can see Gene’s eyes aren’t really black at all. They’re a dark grey-blue like the sea at night, or the sky around the moon. Deep and mysterious but with such a warm shine. He thinks absently that that’s nice too.

Gene says slowly along with the music, “it’s only him for me and me for him. He told me, swore to me for life…and as soon as I see him I feel my heart beating.” The orchestra continues playing, Babe studying Gene’s eyes. They both sit, frozen. The song ends and the needle clunks on the end of the album before lifting itself and sliding back to the side, the machine stilling. Gene watches him right back. “Babe,” he says, low and slow, and Babe watches the word leave his lips. He can’t look away from his mouth, suddenly. He wants to hear him say it again, and a moment later he does. “Babe,” slow like molasses and just as dark, soft like the silver smoke floating through the room. Babe feels hypnotized, drawn in by everything Gene is. He feels focused and more aware of himself than he’s ever been in his life. He feels like the world is narrowing down, his surroundings fading out until it’s just him and Gene and the shrinking gap between them.

Their lips brush, feather light. It’s the barest suggestion of a kiss, but when he pulls back Gene follows him, reels him closer with a gentle hand on his jaw. Babe sighs into it and presses back, just as careful. They pull back, faces inches apart, sharing the same air and the same breaths for a moment. Babe opens his eyes slowly, watches the moonlight mix with the golden street lamps outside and flicker across Gene’s face. He feels a rush of emotions: excitement, happiness, a deep stirring of fear and a sharp pang of lust. Most of all he feels sure, more sure about anything in his entire life.

They lean in again at the same time, Babe’s fingers tangling in dark hair and Gene’s other hand finding his waist. Babe’s heart leaps in his chest and he pulls Gene closer, feeling more than hearing him gasp softly. But then Gene’s licking the line of his lips softly and suddenly it’s Babe who’s gasping. He tugs on his hair lightly, presses their chests together. He wants to get closer, as close as he can be. He wants to map every inch of Gene’s body against his own.

The door bursts open and they spring apart as fast as they drifted together. Harry Welsh stumbles across the threshold with a manic grin. “You two,” he slurs loudly. The sounds of the party on the streets outside come back into focus in a rush, and Babe is suddenly reminded where he is. “Take this, Babe. Hide it. Don’t let Speirs find it. He’s been a jerk about loot all day. He chewed More out over some damn photo albums or something and he’s coming for this next but dammit, I’m gonna give it to Kitty or I’m gonna die trying.” He deposits a helmet full of silverware just inside the doorway. Lipton stands in the hall, seemingly having paused to watch as he made his way downstairs to the festivities. There is a flat look of exasperation on his face. Harry takes off running, and Lip shakes his head as Speirs shoots past the doorway after him, silent and graceful even during what seems to be a drunken rampage. His speed ruffles Lip’s hair slightly.

Babe heaves himself off the bed, holding out his hand so he can help Gene up, too. “A helmet full of silverware. You wanna help me find a place to hide this?”

“Oh, sure,” Gene says. He scoops the helmet off the floor and grins. “Actually, I think I have something in mind.”

 

A light tapping on the door wakes Babe the next morning. It sounds louder than a mortar shell and he presses his face into the mattress, reaching for Gene but finding empty space instead. The noise persists. He groans into the pillow before biting the bullet and rolling out of bed. He stumbles across the room and opens the door. Lipton stands on the other side, worry furrowing his brow.

“Ron is sick,” he says.

Babe blinks at him. He looks down the hall pointedly.  Garcia is curled up in a ball on the floor. Bull is slouched against the wall, dead to the world. Johnny sprawls across his legs, snoring softly. Some sort of flapper headband cuts through his dark curls, complete with pearls and a few frilly black feathers. He pulls it off rather well. “I think we’re all sick, Lip,” Babe says. “Why don’t you give him some time to sleep it off?”

“No, I mean he’s really sick,” Lipton insists. “His nose is running and he has a bad cough. It got worse during the night.”

 “Okay. Gene isn’t here, though. I think he’s already at the aid station.”

“That’s okay. I already talked to Spina and he says they can’t do anything for him unless he develops a fever. I was looking for you.”

Babe blinks. “Me.”

“You. There’s a farm about twenty miles out of town. Rumor has it there are oranges there.”

“I’m sorry, you want me to—you want me to steal oranges? At nine in the morning?”

Lipton nods seriously. “Vitamin C is important for preventing disease. Get enough for everybody. And take someone with you. Anybody you want.”

“Yes, sir,” Babe says, resigned. He pulls on his boots and a nondescript black jacket—no visible connection to the US Military—and grabs the aviators from Germany for good measure. The dark brown lenses provide him with some welcome relief from the harsh sunlight as he steps out of the building.

“Hey—Heffron,” he hears, and spins to see Gene sitting on the steps of the aid station. He has a cup of coffee in his lap, a cigarette in his mouth and an icepack sticking out of the collar of his jacket. Despite the hangover he looks happy. Remarkably so.

“How would you like it if I called you Roe all the time?” Babe says in reply, but he smiles at him. He sits down next to him and steals the cigarette from between his lips, taking a drag. Gene gives him a long-suffering look.

“You going out for a drive or something?”

“Yeah, cargo run. Lipton has something special he needs from a farm out in the country.”

“Special, huh?” Spina says, stepping out of the aid station and lighting a cigarette of his own. “It wouldn’t have anything to do with the cold Speirs caught this week, would it?”

“Good guess,” Babe replies. “There’s some fruit farm out in the country. Lipton’s sent me to go rob them of their citrus fruits.” He takes one more drag from the cigarette before holding it back out to Gene. His breath catches when Gene leans forward and wraps his lips around the end rather than taking it in his hand, and he stares for a minute before bouncing to his feet. “If you guys aren’t too busy here you should come with me. He said I can take anyone I want.”

Gene shakes his head. “You go. I got stuff to do here.” Spina starts to argue, but Gene cuts him off. “If you stay no one will get any work done, you know that. The Canadian girls are all taken by you. One look at you and they can’t focus on their work. Give me your jacket. You don’t want to be in uniform while you rob a fruit farm.” Spina takes it off and hands it to him, and Gene turns to Babe. “You should bring More, too. You heard what Welsh said last night.”

Babe frowned. “Last night?”

“You don’t remember? More robbed Speirs blind the other day. They were all fighting over something.”

Babe thinks about it for a minute. He remembers blue, and smoke. The bang of the door as Welsh came in, and Speirs running after him down the hall. “I don’t remember much.”

Gene’s brows knit together as he assesses Babe carefully. “Define ‘much.’”

“I remember the trucks coming to drop off all the alcohol? And I remember taking a bottle?” Babe thinks. “And then I drank in the square for a while. Took a new bottle and came to see you.”

“That’s all?” Gene asks flatly.

Babe thinks for a minute. “Yeah, that’s about it. I met a woman, too. Right over there.” He gestures to the space beside the stairs. “She was cute. One of the nurses, I think. We chatted for a while and then you came down those steps. And the rest is just…”

Gene seems to close off, eyes hardening and shoulders squaring. He looks away from Babe sharply and won’t look directly at him again. Babe hasn’t seen him like this in a long time, not since the long weeks of Bastogne when he was still holding everyone at arm’s length, and it throws him off-kilter.  “Well, I guess I should remind you that we broke into a car last night. Or you broke in. I just chose which car it was gonna be.”

“A car? Oh god, we didn’t drive it, did we?”

“No,” Gene says quickly. “No, we had a job to do for Welsh. It’s down the alley. You’ll see it.” He gestures down the street, a jerk of a movement. Someone calls for him inside the building, and he starts up the steps. “I gotta go. Drive safe.”

“Do you know me?” Babe says, lips quirking up.

“Too well,” he says, but his eyes don’t glitter like they usually do when he says it and his mouth remains a hard line. Babe has half a mind to chase after him just to see if he can cheer him back up. He feels awful about ruining his good mood, even if he isn’t sure what he did wrong. Before he can, though, Spina bumps their shoulders together. Frowning, Babe follows him down the street.

“It’s just like old times, Babe,” Spina says. “You and me, out in German territory, on a suicide mission looking for medical supplies.”

“This isn’t really a suicide mission. And I don’t think oranges count as medical supplies.”

“Meh. Same difference.” They stop under an apartment building and Spina cups his hands into a cone around his mouth, shouting up at the windows. “More!”

“Shaddup!” someone yells.

“It’s nine-fucking-thirty, fuckhead!” yells someone else.

Alton More sticks his head out from a window on the fourth floor. “Whaddya want?” From the room next to him, someone gives an agonized yell.  A vase hurdles out the window. Spina sidesteps it neatly as it shatters on the cobblestones.

“How would ya like to come on a mission with us?” shouts Spina.

“What sort of mission?” Alton yells.

Perconte sticks his head out of a window on floor two. “Shut _up_!”

“A top secret mission for the brass,” Spina yells to Alton. “Just the three of us. Whaddya say?”

Luz’s head appears in a window on the third floor. “Can’t you guys chit chat somewhere else? Let us honest working folk rest, alright?”

Alton ignores him. “Heffron’s coming? Is he driving?”

“Sure!” Babe says.

Alton nods slowly. “Yeah, sure, I’ll come. Give me two minutes.”

Luz and Perconte disappear, presumably to go back to sleep. Minutes later Alton steps onto the street. He seems to have taken his cue from Spina and Babe, wearing nondescript civvies. He sticks his hand out to Babe. “Alton More. I’m not sure we’ve met. I’ve heard great things.”

Babe shakes his hand and they start down the street. “Call me Babe.”

“…Babe?”

“Yeah, it’s my name. B-A-B-E. And what’ve you been hearing about me, exactly?”

“Only good things. There are a lot of rumors going around about your savvy with cars, you know.”

“Oh yeah?” They turn down the alley Gene described.

“Yep. This our ride, then?”

Babe stops short, looking at it. It’s lovely pickup truck. The tires have good treads and it’s even got an American engine. It isn’t too big, or too small. The cab looks comfortable, and the roof is high enough that Babe’s head won’t drag against it every time they hit a bump. The seats are nice, worn in but not beaten up. It’s a car he easily would have picked out for himself. It’s just, well.

It’s orange.

Okay, to be fair it’s more of a coppery-red color. There are patches of rust mottling the shiny paint, too, so it’s not like it’s even that obtrusive. It’s just a little unexpected.

He shakes off his surprise and starts toward it. “I guess it is. Come on, hop in.”

They squeeze together into the front seat, Spina taking one for the team and sitting in the middle. Babe slams the door shut and buckles his seatbelt. The band crosses over his sternum and presses into his chest, and he can feel something jagged digging into his skin under his shirt. It’s the same spot where his dog tags hang, but he doesn’t keep anything sharp on the chain. Frowning, he tugs on the metal beads until they come out from under his collar. There is something new dangling there, nestled between the tags and his can opener. It’s a metal circle, bent inward around a rough hole that looks like it was punched through forcefully, the edges on the other side sticking up in a jagged ring.

“What’s this?”

Spina studies him, amused. “You don’t remember? Damn. What were you drinking last night? Shifty was shooting coins out of the sky. He gave one to everybody there. Said we’re all brothers now.”

Babe remembers that much: the repetitive bang of the rifle, Tab flipping Nazi pocket change into the air with glee, George and Perco running after the coins as they pinged across the square. He runs his thumb over the jagged edges of the hole again. The eagle and swastika are all but obliterated, the German letters looping around the hole the only indication of what used to be there. He wonders if Shifty appreciates the symbolism.

Alton leans around Spina and squints at the coin, tutting. “He gave you one of the good ones! It’s nice and flat, and the hole is dead center. It’s a two Reichsmark, too. Silver.” He pulls his own dog tags out, displaying a single-pfennig bronze coin bent nearly into a cone. “You wanna trade?”

Spina slaps Alton’s hand down, and Babe takes that as his cue to tuck his dog tags back in and get to work on the ignition. “You know we can’t trade!” Spina scolds. “Shifty says each one is a representation of our souls. It’s very important!”

“Yeah?  Well then why is mine all bent and sad?”

The engine hums to life and Babe’s brow furrows. There’s nothing quite like the sweet sound of an American engine, but something about this one sounds a bit off. It takes him a second to realize the strange jingling, rattling sound isn’t coming from the engine at all, but the space under the driver’s seat.

Spina hears it, too. “What’s that sound? It almost sounds like silverware.”

Silverware—that sparks something in his memory. He reaches under the seat, groping around until his hand closes around an ivory handle of a fork. He stares at it for a long moment before replacing it under the seat. Babe sighs a heavy sigh and pushes his glasses up his nose, throwing the truck into gear. “Please don’t ask,” he says, and they start down the alley toward the road.

 

They arrive at the farm fifteen minutes later. Babe slowly pulls the truck next to one of the many greenhouses and all three men squint through the windshield warily. The greenhouses are packed with orange trees, the delicate plants staying warm throughout the Austrian winters.. What really has Babe baffled is the sheer quantity of oranges hanging from the boughs. He didn’t think there would be any at all, what with the fruit being out of season. The trees are more orange than they are green.

“What’s the plot, Babe?”

Babe eyes the greenhouse for another second before accelerating toward a cluster of bushes. “I’m parking in here. We find a way to open that door, grab some of those boxes and fill up as many as we can before we either get caught or the truck fills up. And then we get the fuck out of here.”

He parks the truck and reaches for his seatbelt, but Alton stops him. “Keep it running,” he says. Babe opens his mouth to protest, but Alton cuts him off. “I can pick the lock, I’ve done it before. I’d feel safer having a getaway driver than an extra set of hands. Besides, I doubt it’ll even take a whole tree to fill this truck up. We’ll be quick.”

Babe nods, and the two men slide out of the passenger side. He watches them jog toward the greenhouse, Spina grabbing two wooden boxes while Alton picks the lock. Something vaguely familiar comes on the radio, all awkward drums and goofy sax, and Babe taps his hands to the beat on the wheel as Spina returns with the first box. He winks at Babe and drops it into the bed of the trunk. Babe shoots finger guns back.

Box after box makes its way into the back of the truck until finally Spina slides into the truck next to him. He smiles when he hears the radio. “Hey, I love this song! Weird little tune, right?”

Babe just snorts, grinning. “Where’s Alton?”

“Getting the last box, and then we can go.” The music swells to new, weirder levels. Distant shouting reaches them, and it takes Babe a minute to realize it’s coming from the greenhouse. “Shit. Do you hear that?” Alton barrels out of the door at full speed, full box of oranges bouncing in his arms. A farmer sprints after him with a rifle. “Shit! _Shit!_ Babe, drive! Fuck!”

Babe throws the car into gear and slams on the pedal, spinning the wheel hand over hand. The tires spin uselessly in the dust for a moment before catching, and he whips it through a one-eighty. The air is immediately filled with dust, truck lurching forward. He stops abruptly right between Alton and the farmer. Spina throws the door open, calling to him, as the farmer crashes head-on into the driver’s side door. Babe opens the door, pushing him to the ground and out of harm’s way just as Alton dives into the passenger side. The contents of his box go tumbling onto Spina’s lap. Both doors slam in unison, Babe already accelerating toward the road. “Sorry!” Babe yells through the open window. “We need these!”

He swerves back onto the main road, speeding toward town. By the window, Alton looks shell shocked. Spina stares wide-eyed at the road ahead, then seems to realize all at once he is covered in citrus fruit. Seeming at a loss, he pulls the peel off one in a long ribbon and starts handing slices out. Babe pops one into his mouth. It tastes like victory.

 

Luz greets them with a whistle as the truck rolls up in the middle of town. “Well, well! The prodigal son returns!” He’s sitting on the top step leading up to one of the apartments, cigarette hanging from his mouth and newspaper balanced on his head to shield his eyes from the sun. Liebgott and Webster sit two stairs below him, Joe sipping coffee with dead eyes while Web dozes on his shoulder.

“Who you calling prodigal?” Babe shouts back. He kills the engine, scoops the box of oranges from the seat and rounds the front of the truck. An orderly stumbles out of headquarters, seemingly in a state of awe at the sheer quantity of fruit before him. “Hey,” Babe calls to him. He gestures to the trunk. “Take one of these boxes to Sparky, will you?”

The orderly’s eyes shift to Babe, still awestruck. “To Speirs?”

“Yeah, Speirs, yeah. Take a box to him. Tell him it’s from—”

“From Babe. You’re Babe Heffron. B-A-B-E.”

Babe frowns behind his glasses. “Have we met?”

“You have a reputation.” The orderly looks exasperated and grudgingly respectful in equal measure.

“Huh. Well, take a few oranges for yourself. There’s enough to go around.”

“Hey, wait,” Liebgott says suddenly. He stands and Web falls toward the pavement before snapping awake and righting himself, disoriented. “You’re going to see Speirs? Here, take this too.” He places a paperback into the box. “There ya go. Some light reading. He’ll like that. Off you go.”

The orderly hurries off with his box just as Welsh marches out of Headquarters. He catches sight of Babe and marches toward him quickly, clearly stressed. “Heffron. Is there any chance I left anything in your room last night?”

“Some sort of treasured loot, perhaps? Well, I wouldn’t know a thing about that,” Babe says smoothly. “While you’re here, would you like some oranges?”

He holds the crate out and Welsh’s eyes widen when he hears the muffled clink of metal. He moves an orange aside to reveal the stolen silverware resting in the bottom. He takes the box gleefully. “Ah, oranges! How I do love oranges. Thanks for this.” He winks at him and trots back toward Headquarters, a spring in his step.

Through the square, men are beginning to stumble out of doorways toward the truck. Shouts of glee ring through the square as oranges are tossed from person to person, everyone taking their share. Babe smiles at the sight, but his mood is dampered when he looks to the aid station. Eugene is nowhere to be seen, not drawn out by the commotion in the slightest. Babe sighs and walks toward the stairs, sitting down heavily next to Luz.

“What’s got you in such a funk?” Luz asks. He hands him a cigarette and Babe takes it gratefully.

“Just tired is all. It was a long night and I’m still trying to piece it all together.”

“Amen to that. What I wouldn’t do for a good, greasy plate of eggs and bacon.”

“Please don’t talk about grease,” says Webster, looking a little green.

“Say, Babe,” Joe starts conversationally, “things could be worse. You rolled up here looking like something straight out of Vanity Fair, so you can tally that up as a win.”

“Vanity Fair? Fuck do you mean? I feel like death.”

“You may feel like death, but the color coordination is excellent this morning.” Babe blinks at him and Joe rolls his eyes. “I mean the truck, dumbass. Where’d you find a truck that’s the exact same color as your hair?”

Babe’s eyes jump to the truck. Joe’s right, though Babe didn’t realize it at first. “I don’t know. I didn’t pick it out, I think Gene did.”

“Doc Roe?” Joe looks amused now. “Jesus. Well, I guess that makes sense.”

Babe opens his mouth, about to ask what he means, but jumps instead when a hand claps down onto his shoulder. He turns around to see Nix grimacing at him apologetically. “Heffron.”

“Sir?”

“Winters wants to see you in his office.”

“Now?”

Nix nods. “Right now. Sorry, kid.”

Babe stubs his cigarette out on the steps, taking his last look at the street. “I guess this is the last time you see me. I’m a dead man now, boys. Winters is gonna have my head.”

“Winters wouldn’t kill you,” Web mutters. His eyes are slipping shut again. “He’d have somebody else do it for him. You’re lucky Speirs is sick today.”

Babe stands to head inside, flipping them all a salute. Joe now has his arm around Web’s shoulders to give him optimal room to nap, and he nods to Babe as he passes. Luz raises his cigarette solemnly in a mock salute. It feels like a march to the gallows.

He enters the building, going straight toward Winters’ office and knocking on the door before stepping inside and standing at attention in front of the man’s desk. Winters sets his pen down. “Heffron,” he greets, gesturing to a chair. “Take a seat.”

Babe sits warily. Winters studies him silently before speaking again.

“Word of your adventures has been spreading around lately,” he says finally. “I heard about your outing this morning. You did some good work.”

Babe looks at him sharply. “Sir?”

“I want to keep this between you and me,” Winters leans across the desk. “I have a mission for you. Highly classified. No one hears of it, you do it alone and you don’t get caught. Okay?”

“What’s the mission, sir?” Babe asks warily.

Winters hesitates, then says, “I need a ring.”

“…A ring? Like an engagement ring?”

“Yeah, like an engagement ring.”

“Jeez. Who’s the lucky gal?” Babe says before he can stop himself.

“Doesn’t matter,” Winters says quickly. “It’s no one you know. I need it by tonight though, okay?”

“Alright,” Babe says, bemused. “Any specifications? Diamonds, rubies, anything?”

“Size 9,” Winters says, then thinks for a moment. “Keep it simple. Really simple. Nothing too flashy. Think closer to a wedding band. And make sure you pay them.” He pulls a stack of bills from a drawer and slides them across the desk.

Babe takes it and stands. It’s a weird request, especially from someone as straight-laced as Winters, but he’s done weirder things for the company before. “Alright, that can happen. I’ll leave right now, while everyone’s distracted with the oranges.”

Winters blinks. “There are oranges?”

 

Babe initially heads toward the most beat up car on the block he sees, but then figures if he’s really going to go down during a one-man mission to further his Battalion Commander’s love life he might as well do it in style. He starts instead toward a gorgeous white Cadillac with light blue accents. The chrome shines as if it rolled off the conveyor belt yesterday. He picks the lock on the door and slides into the seat with relish, cracking his knuckles before starting the engine and wrapping his fingers around the smooth leather of the gear shift.

Finding the store he needs is a little harder. The Austrian countryside is a beautiful place, but it isn’t exactly packed with jewelry stores.

He drives for hours, from town to town to town. He stops four times to ask milling farmers for help, but though they all smile at him warmly none of them speak English. The quest is starting to feel futile as time goes by, but Babe is hardly worried. Nothing calms the mind like a long drive through the country, and if he is forced to come back empty handed then so be it.

He stops at some sort of depot around four in the afternoon and fills the gas tank with some jugs of fuel sitting outside. He stretches his legs for a minute, looking around at the empty buildings. The town is deserted, almost apocalyptically so. Maybe the occupants were all Nazi soldiers, or maybe Jews. Maybe they were just civilians who decided leaving town for a while was in their best interest. He doesn't know.

He follows the smooth angles of the old buildings down the street, tracking each line of brick and plane of plaster with his eyes. It isn't a large town, and much of it seems to be long-since abandoned. Nothing stirs in the windows and debris clogs the dirty streets.

And that's when he spots it.

There, tucked away in the base floor of an apartment building, is a tiny jewelry shop. There are velvet boards propped up in the windows, lines cut out where rings probably rested when this town was still busy. Babe wonders at the serendipity of it: a town so small, so random, with a shop holding exactly what he needs. He crosses the street to peer through the window. The inside of the shop is dark and dusty. The display cases are empty and look as if they haven't been touched in years. Maybe they haven't.

He quickly picks the lock and steps inside, taking in the smell of still air. Dust motes swirl as a draft follows him through the door. He meanders slowly through the shop, tracing a line through the dust on the glass cases with one finger as he walks. There really is nothing there; whoever used to own this store was smart about clearing out the stock before leaving.

The storeroom in the back is another matter. He makes quick work of the lock before swinging the door open to reveal rack upon rack of precious gems. Pearls hang from a series of hooks elegantly, brooches lined up neatly on a foam palette. There are several shelves of earrings and bracelets, and toward the back he spots row upon row of rings.

The first rack is all showy ones, bright yellow gold and large diamonds. Babe is drawn in by the bright hues of the stones, sapphires and aquamarine calling to him. He shakes himself, remembering the task at hand. Winters doesn't need something big and flashy like that.

He turns to the shelf of wedding bands instead and scans the row until his eyes catch on one in particular. It's smooth white gold, and when he picks it up it shines warmly in his hand. The edges are decorated with tiny rows of diamonds, and they glitter subtly like crushed glass. It's simple but not too simple, flashy but not showy. Different enough to be special but not so different as to be loud. He nods to himself, grabs a blue suede box from the shelf below and putting the ring in carefully before slipping it into his pocket. He stands to go, and that's when he hears something.

There are footsteps coming from the street outside.

Babe closes his eyes and swallows hard before pulling out his gun and flicking the safety off. He keeps it pointed downward as he walks silently toward the door to the storeroom. The footsteps become louder as the person steps into the shop from the street. Babe hears a voice call out in German.

He steps swiftly around the corner, gun raised and ready to fire, and finds himself staring down the barrel at an old man.

The man’s eyes widen and Babe lowers the gun quickly, holding up one hand as he holsters it. “Woah, it's alright. We can be friends, alright? I'm not gonna hurt you.” He pulls the stack of cash that Winters gave him from his breast pocket. “Look, here. I have this for you. It's for this ring I took, okay? My friend’s marrying some broad and he needs a ring.” He’s met with a barrage of indignant shouts in German. If this man was afraid at all, that fear is gone now. “Um, Sprechen Sie Englisch?” The man continues yelling, so Babe places the cash gently on the counter and begins to edge toward the door slowly. “Look, I’m just gonna go ahead and go, alright? Here’s the money for you. That should cover it, I think. Yep.”

He’s nearly out the door when the man pulls out a gun.

Babe runs. He pulls the door shut behind him as he bolts through it, hearing the man bang into it forcefully. Babe dives behind a short brick wall just as the man runs out the door and onto the street. There is more yelling in German and several gunshots.

Babe peeks over the wall and then pulls back just as quickly. The man is spinning in the middle of the street, gun waving in the air as he shouts. For an old man, he is insanely spry. He looks longingly across the street. The car can’t be more than fifty feet away, just a short jump over the wall and a dozen paces across the pavement, but the distance seems like miles with the man in the way. Babe already knows he can’t bring himself to shoot a civilian, even an armed one. He also knows he doesn’t want to die in the middle of Austria at the tail end of the war while stealing a fucking wedding ring.

The man stops yelling and Babe peers over the wall again to see him stalking toward a building down the street. Babe knows it’s the only chance he’s going to get, so he stands and slides over the wall. He runs across the street with quick strides, landing each step on his toes the way he’s seen Speirs do; his feet fall silently in the dust and he lands in a crouch behind the trunk of the car. He peers around it to see the man still turned away from him and breathes a sigh of relief.

Ducking under the windows and rounding the car silently, he reaches quickly for the door handle and pulls it open before crawling into the seat. He lowers the back immediately, laying flat within the car and leaving the door ajar to avoid slamming it. The street outside is silent, but he knows as soon as he gets the engine on the man will be running toward him in an instant.

He pulls his tools from his pocket, still lying flat in the seat. He gets to work on the ignition, hands surprisingly steady despite his pounding pulse and stuttering breath. A few seconds later the engine turns over with a rumble; the radio blares to life, speakers blasting some sort of French club jazz at a truly deafening volume; and the yelling outside starts up again, shots echoing through the air.

Without even sitting up Babe shifts into gear and floors the gas pedal. The back tires spin before catching traction in the dusty street and the car takes off like a shot. A bullet blasts the right-side rear view mirror clean off, but Babe already can tell he’s clear. He leans up far enough to see over the dashboard, glancing in the mirror briefly to see the man lowering his gun angrily as the car peels onto the country road. Babe lets out a breath when he finally clears the little town. The ring box is a reassuring weight in his pocket. He pulls his seat up and settles in. It’s a long drive back to base.

 

Between another fuel stop, a tire change after a bad fall into a pothole, and stopping twice for directions—he’s excellent at driving, not navigating the Austrian countryside—it’s nearly ten at night when he finally returns the car to its parking spot a block away from Headquarters. He walks to the city square and up the steps, exhausted, seeing a familiar orderly at the desk.

“Is Winters in by any chance?”

“Been sitting in that office all day,” the orderly says without looking up from his paperwork. “Go right in. He isn’t busy.”

Babe walks to the door and knocks before entering. Winters looks up sharply as he enters, shoulders relaxing and relief written across his face.

“Heffron,” he says. “I was worried we’d have to send out a rescue party.”

“I just ran into a few problems. Flat tire, some wrong turns, a gun-wielding jeweler. That sort of thing,” Babe says as he closes the door.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, sir. He wasn’t the best shot.”

“You payed him at least, right?”

“I gave him the money. For some reason he was still very upset.” Babe shoves his hand in his pocket, pulling out the box. “That’s neither here nor there, though. I found this. I hope it’s what you’re looking for.”

Winters opens the box. Several emotions pass over his face, there and gone in a blink. He pulls the ring out reverently. The tiny diamonds catch in the light when he turns it over in his hand, white gold shining warmly. He stares at it for a long moment before swallowing thickly putting it in the box again carefully with a soft smile. “It’s—it’s perfect. Exactly what I was looking for. Perfect.”

“I’m glad I could help, sir,” he says. He means it, he really does, but the words taste a little bitter. All he wants to do is fall into bed, tangle his legs with Eugene’s and sleep for a week. This company owes him some time off after all the gun-toting Austrians he’s had to dodge today.

“Thank you for this, Heffron. You’re off duty until Tuesday. Take some time for yourself.”

“Sir,” Babe nods, turning to go.

“Oh, one more thing, before I forget,” Winters says, apologetically. “I’m missing a book. _Star-Crossed On The Western Front._ Nixon stole it before I got the chance to finish it, and now it seems to have vanished. Have you seen it?”

Babe takes a deep breath and thinks back to the propaganda that had encouraged him to enlist in the army in the first place. _Protect freedom_ , they had said. _Fight for democracy. Make your country proud._ There was no mention of constantly doing favors for officers. It was false advertising if he’d ever seen it. “Last time I saw it Liebgott had it. No, maybe Speirs. It’s been making the rounds, sir. It’s very popular with the men.”

Babe leaves the office, trudging across the street toward his building. When he gets there his room is grayscale and bland by the light of the moon, and the bed is cold and empty. He drops onto the mattress, not even bothering to take off his boots before he falls into a fitful sleep.

 

He wakes sometime around noon the next day, feeling no less exhausted than he did the night before. Dreams cling behind his eyes in the light of day, dreams of dark blue eyes and pink lips brushing his. It’s a good dream, a lot better than the ones that usually haunt him, but it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. The bed next to him is still empty, everything in the room exactly as he’d left it the day before. Eugene hadn’t come here, then. He’s still mad at Babe for whatever reason. It makes the dream that much more haunting.

He gets out of bed and goes downstairs for lack of anything better to do, wandering through the halls before heading into the town square. It’s bustling with activity as always, trucks moving through the streets and people calling to each other. He relishes the sounds for a moment. No matter his personal drama, life goes on.

Lipton walks by him, reading over a few papers as he goes, but he looks up as he passes Babe and stops short. “Heffron,” he greets. “I’ve been looking for you. I never got to thank you for what you did yesterday.”

Babe shrugs. “Just doing my job, sir.”

“No, stealing oranges from farmers isn’t actually part of your job,” Lipton says, smiling wryly. “You didn’t have to do it, but you did it anyway. I appreciate that a hell of a lot.”

“Thanks,” Babe says, nodding to himself. “I’m glad I could help, anyway. Do you need help with anything?”

“No, no. Winters said you got the day off. You should go enjoy it. In fact, maybe you should drop in and see Doc Roe. You don’t quite look yourself.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. Me and him aren’t on the best terms right now.”

“Oh yeah?  You two seemed fine the other night.”

Babe starts. “What? What did you see?”

“Not much, just Harry showering you with silverware,” Lipton replies. “What, you don’t remember?”

He shakes his head ruefully. “I don’t remember shit. I’m never drinking German whiskey again.”

Lipton snorts and pulls something out of his pocket. “Take it easy today, Babe,” he says. “Do some light reading. Eat some protein and stay hydrated. Sometimes problems like these have a way of working themselves out.”

Babe takes the book Lipton is holding carefully, wary of the now-fragile spine. He doesn’t bother to read the swooping cursive cover; the two barely-clothed soldiers on the cover speak for themselves. He flips instead to the cover page. Winters’ and Nixon’s names still grace the upper corner. Below them, David Webster is written in a bright blue flourish; then Joe Liebgott in carefully printed pencil; then Ronald Spiers in precise cursive, and finally Carwood Lipton written in neat block letters. Babe smiles at it, shutting the book carefully. “This book,” he says. “I’ve been hearing an awful lot about this book. Winters was looking for it last night, you know.”

“Yeah, well. I’d just gotten to the good part. Dick has an entire library at his disposal. I think he can afford to lose one book.”

“Stealing is a sin, you know.”

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll let you return that to him at your own discretion, then,” Lipton says. “It’s a good read though, really. I’m not one for dumb romance novels like that, but it really puts things into perspective. Sometimes you’ve just got to do what you’ve got to do.” He studies Babe for a long moment, eyes inscrutable. It feels like he’s looking right into Babe’s soul and he fights the urge to squirm. “Anyway, have fun. I’m off.”

Babe watches him leave, bemused, before going back inside. He reads the back of _Star-Crossed On The Western Front: Not Even War Can Stop True Love_ by Francis M. Schneebly halfheartedly and is dismayed to find it genuinely does sound pretty good. He goes back to his room and lights a cigarette, eyeing his little record player before giving it a few cranks and dropping the needle onto the album resting on the turntable. He watches smoke spiral through the room idly as the first warm trumpet notes crackle through the speakers.

It sparks a memory somewhere in the back of his head.

_“C'est lui pour moi, moi pour lui dans la vie; il me l'a dit, l'a juré pour la vie.”_

Dark blue eyes; smoke curling through the air; Gene’s voice rolling his name so deep and slow; Babe’s fingers tangled in his hair.

And oh no. Oh dear. He has majorly fucked up.

 

It figures car theft is what he’ll be doing on his day off. He’d be more upset about it if he hadn’t already resigned himself to his new status as Easy Company getaway driver and part-time chauffeur. He grumbles about all of this to himself as he busts into a nondescript blue truck a few blocks away from his building (and of fucking course all his cars are blue, it’s no wonder he loves blue so much when Gene’s blue eyes have been haunting him for days, _how fucking stupid can you get, Heffron—_ ) and starts the engine. He turns the radio on but immediately the Andrews Sisters begin chirping at him to accentuate the positives. He huffs and flicks the power off, focusing instead on the task at hand. He needs to pull a leaf from Liebgott’s book and scrounge up an apology gift.

 

It’s nightfall by the time he returns to town. He goes directly to the aid station. It’s the only place in the city Eugene could be. They’d been sharing quarters for so long everyone had just given up on assigning Eugene a room of his own, and if he wasn’t asleep next to Babe he was doing his job with the same meticulous determination he devoted to every other aspect of his life.

He walks into the building, descending the steps to the basement, fingers shaking almost imperceptibly.

Gene is sat in a chair at a table, sorting bandages into neat stacks. He looks up as Babe enters the room. He looks tired in a way he hasn’t since Bastogne, circles back under his eyes where they’d been absent for weeks before.

“Gene,” Babe says, smiling. “These are for you. I even payed for them, too. How about that?”

Eugene blinks. “Where did you buy sunflowers in war-torn Austria?”

“There was a little roadside stand.”

“There was a little roadside stand selling orange sunflowers…in war-torn Austria?”

Okay, in retrospect that’s a little weird. He probably just bought flowers from Soviet spies or something. He shrugs. “Yeah. They made me think of you. You like orange. You said it reminds you of warmth and happy things.”

“You remember that?” Eugene asks, taking the flowers and studying them with soft eyes.

That particular memory had come to Babe as he’d driven through farm country—Eugene laughing against his neck, slurring out that this was the best truck of all time, _the very best one, Babe, it’s just lovely, look_. He’d picked the lock on the orange pickup truck with clumsy fingers, supporting Gene with his other hand as he swayed. They’d dumped the silverware under the driver’s seat, giggling all the while before fleeing the scene like children.

“Yeah, of course I do. I remember all of it. Just took me a minute, is all.” Gene looks at him finally, warm and open. It’s like seeing the sun come out and god help him, Babe just melts. “I’m not the smartest person in the company by a long shot, but Gene, if you give me the chance I swear I’ll spend as long as you’ll have me proving exactly how much you mean to me.”

“You swear?” Gene asks, but he’s already grinning widely and setting the sunflowers on the table, stepping into Babe’s space.

“I swear,” Babe murmurs. And then Gene presses his lips to Babe’s, sure and soft and perfect, and it feels like coming home.

Babe means to keep it sweet and pure, just like Gene deserves after all the shit Babe’s put him through, but Gene’s already got his hands around Babe’s waist and is sucking on his lip sweetly and really, Babe’s never claimed to be strong. He backs him against the table, pressing as close as he can. Gene gives a little hop so that he’s seated on the edge and tugs Babe into the vee of his legs. He’s struck suddenly by how they fit together like this, how after months of circling around each other they’d blend together so perfectly, lines between them blurring in his head like two beams of light. He wonders how he didn’t see it coming.

And Babe is content to make out lazily like that all night, slow and sweet like they have all the time in the world, but somewhere between one breath and the next Gene’s fingers slip under his shirt to toy with the back of his waistband and Babe retaliates with a scrape of teeth against Gene’s bottom lip followed with a soft swipe of his tongue, and Gene makes the prettiest sound and wraps his legs around Babe’s waist to reel him even closer. He breaks away to press his mouth to the juncture of Babe’s jaw, his pulse point, the base of his neck. When his lips find the dip above his collarbone Babe’s grinding against him before he can help himself, one long, smooth motion that has them both gasping. Gene presses their foreheads together and says, “Babe,” a slow drawl, his voice rough. There are high points of pink on his cheeks, his mouth kiss-pink and his eyes dark. Babe guesses he doesn’t look much better.

“Good?”

“Great. Perfect.” He laughs under his breath, giddy, and presses their lips together again.

Babe gets his hand under his thighs and lifts him. Somehow he’s able to make it to the disused cot in the corner without dropping Gene, breaking the kiss or tripping and seriously injuring them both. He sits down with Gene in his lap until Gene pushes him gently backward, getting a thigh between his own. And then they’re grinding against each other, sharing the same air and laughing breathlessly and pressing kisses to each other’s lips with increasingly less finesse as they both lose themselves.

It’s Gene who comes first, and Babe watches him with something like awe. His lashes flutter, lips parting around a low moan before he’s collapsing, his face pressed into Babe’s neck. He’s boneless for a moment, catching his breath, and then a second later he’s sliding a clumsy hand under Babe’s waistband. He gets his fingers around him, murmurs, “come on, Babe, let me see you, _cher_ ,” and he barely gives two strokes before Babe is arching off the cot with a gasp.

They lay there for a long minute; Babe leans up finally and gives Gene one last kiss, long and familiar. They pull away to look at each other before bursting into giggles.

“We’re disgusting,” Gene says, gesturing to their now-sticky clothes. Babe grins.

“What do you say we clean up and then try this again in an actual bed?”

“That depends. Will I actually get to undress you this time?”

He does.

 

He wakes the next day curled in the white sheets of his bed, soft light filtering in through the curtains. Eugene is beside him with his chin propped up on his hands, laying on his stomach. There’s a book propped open in front of him.

“Light reading?” Babe asks, voice rough from sleep.

Eugene looks up from the pages and leans over to kiss him, chaste and familiar like they’ve been doing it for a lifetime. “Where did you even find this? It isn’t bad, but I didn’t take you for the romance novel type.”

“Have you signed it yet? It’s pretty much tradition now.” Eugene flips to the cover page. Babe had written his own name in black chicken scratch underneath Lipton’s; Eugene took his cue and did the same, his name a lazy scrawl written with the same pen Babe had used. Babe smiles wryly when he sees it.

Eugene closes the book and sets it aside, arm stretching in a smooth line as he strains to reach the little record player where it sits on the floor. He hooks his fingers through the strap and tugs it closer. Babe’s eyes sweep over the lines of his back before they catch on the chain dangling past the neckline of his t-shirt—they sleep clothed, always have, all-too aware that not being ready to fight at all times could make any moment their last. He tugs it out carefully and Eugene looks at him in confusion as the first lilts of music fill the room. Babe sweeps his finger over the coin dangling next to his dog tags. It’s thick and silver, the hole a little off center but much less jagged than the one punched through Babe’s. The coin itself is worn, tarnished in its dips and ridges but still shiny. Following some unexplainable instinct, he cranes his neck to press his lips against the metal before pulling his own chain to hold the two side by side.

Gene studies them too. “If Shifty chose them to match our souls, I think he chose yours quite well.”

“You think so? I think he just gave me this one so it’d match yours.” Babe traces the clean bullet hole through Gene’s. They have the same silver shine, Babe’s a little more scratched and worn. His is shot through evenly where Gene’s is a little crooked, Gene’s with smooth edges where Babe’s are a little jagged.

“No, yours is special. See?” He rubs his finger across it. “Shot dead center, clean and exact. Perfectly precise.”

“Yours is special, too. It’s a little bigger. Shifty gave you a five. He likes you.”

Gene smiles. “We both got silver either way. No one got silver except for you, me and Tab.”

“How did you see Tab’s?”

“I saw it when he got it. He cried. It was touching.”

Babe chortles a little at that. “Did he get a five, too?”

“Yeah, a big shiny one. Why? You jealous?” he teases, and he’s smirking now.

Babe bowls him into the pillows and pins him there lightly, and Gene is grinning up at him. It takes Babe’s breath away, all of it: the sun just beginning to peak up and shine through the window, the music drifting up from the phonograph on the floor, the soft blankets tangled around their ankles and Gene, warm and happy and without dark circles staining the space under his eyes for the first time in as long as Babe can remember. He kisses him once just because he can, and then a second time, slow and deep until Gene’s squirming and tugging his hands free so he can slide cool fingers up the back of his shirt.

“What time do you have to report?”  Babe asks a little breathlessly as he finally pulls away.

“Report? Uh…fifteen minutes.”

“Fifteen minutes? That sounds like a challenge to me.”

Gene laughs breathlessly. “Show me what you got, Heffron.”

Babe has him writhing and shouting his release in eight minutes flat. He’s proud of that, too, until Gene smirks hazily and has him coming in less than six.

He lingers in bed for a long moment as Gene throws his clothes on in a flurry and gives him a lingering kiss before rushing off to the aid station. He gets dressed more slowly and makes his way downstairs, smiling to himself, lost in his own thoughts. He crashes into someone bodily in the hallway.

“Sorry, I didn’t—sir!”

It’s Speirs, dead-eyed shark stare out in full force.

Lipton steps out from behind him, closing the door to the supply closet carefully before looking at Babe reproachfully and heading down the hall, straightening his tie along the way. Babe’s eyebrows fly toward his hairline as the pieces come together in his head. “Guess you’re feeling better then, eh, sir?” he says, and then wonders idly when he got a death wish. Eyes wide and panic rising in his chest, he turns to Speirs. The half-formed apology dies in his throat. Speirs is smiling a very tiny, very cold and very dead smile. His eyes have somehow gotten even more blank. It’s terrifying.

He looks at Babe for a moment, searching. Babe is expecting threats, rushed excuses, maybe even hurried justifications and a plea that Babe never tell anyone what he saw. But no, he should have known better because when Speirs finally opens his mouth it’s to say, “You have something on your neck.” Babe’s hand flies up to smack over the place where he guesses the love bite must be. “Other side,” Speirs says, smiling with all his teeth. He turns and follows Lipton before Babe can even respond.

When he rushes to the washroom to check the mirror there isn’t even anything there, which, he really should have seen that coming, too.

Fucking Speirs.

He walks through the lobby and grabs a cup of coffee from the kitchen on his way before plunking down on one of the long tables. Nix is already there, inexplicable this early in the morning. The man rarely rises before eleven unless he wants something. There’s a paper spread out in front of him, but he looks up when Babe sits down.

“You look ready to piss yourself. What’s going on?”

Babe opens his mouth. Closes it, then finally murmurs, “I’ve seen things.”

“Haven’t we all? That’s war.”

Babe shakes his head, taking a long sip of coffee. It makes him feel a little better. “Anything for me to do today, sir? Or are we all taking a break from petty crime for a while?”

Nix thinks for a moment. Babe realizes with a start that there’s something different about him today. He’s brighter, somehow. Clean-shaven and tidy, but that isn’t all. “You could ask the medics, maybe, but your life of crime may have come to an end at last.” Babe blinks at him, confused, and Nix smiles and slides the paper across the table. “Didn’t you hear, Babe? The war is over.”

And it is. It says so, splayed right across the top of the paper. But that isn’t what has Babe freezing, eyes wide and jaw dropping. No, he’s looking at Nix’s left hand where it’s still splayed across the newspaper.

There is a very familiar white gold band around his ring finger.

He really should’ve seen this coming.

“Well, I’m off!” Nix says suddenly, standing up. Babe is still blinking stupidly at the place where his hand used to be. “Stay out of trouble, alright?”

“Yes, sir,” he says distantly. He sits there for a few more minutes, thinking the events of the morning through.

Lipton and Speirs, seeming to have come to some sort of arrangement which they’re both pleased with.

He and Eugene, finally done dancing around each other.

Winters, finally putting a ring on the man he’s been blatantly in love with for years. Nix, finally lacking the weight on his shoulders and seeming his twenty-six years.  

All the men in this building, slowly waking up with all the noise only a company like this one can produce at seven in the morning. All the men in the building next door, safe and happy and about to finally go home.

Babe smiles to himself. The war is over, the sun is rising, and he couldn’t be happier.

**Author's Note:**

> Star-Crossed On The Western Front: Not Even War Can Stop True Love by Francis M. Schneebly is not a real book. I don't think. If it was, it would basically just be the first Captain America movie, though. 
> 
> However, the songs in this fic are real!!! Here is a list!  
> -first lil chase scene thing at the museum: Sing Sing Sing, performed by Benny Goodman  
> -first song on the 45: Summertime, Ella Fitzgerald + Louis Armstrong  
> -orange stealing song: Caravan, Duke Ellington  
> -his apology gift mission: Acc-Ent-Tchu-Ate The Positives, Bing Crosby + The Andrews Sisters  
> -song blaring while the guy is shooting at him in the car: Daphne by Django Reinhart  
> -last song on the 45: Y'a Pas D'Printemps, Edith Piaf


End file.
